


Truth In Potatoes

by bomberqueen17



Series: Choice Is Not A Word A Bullet Knows [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, F/M, Fandom Hanukkah Challenge, Gen, Hanukkah, Latkes, Natasha Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bomberqueen17/pseuds/bomberqueen17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and Sam are just really passionate about potato pancakes okay. They decide that a minor holiday in a major religion is a suitable excuse for culinary experimentation and general togetherness-mayhem.<br/> Bucky discovers that his new StarkTech prosthetic (ok the old one was too but this one is more so) is really really really good for grating potatoes. Also, ruminations on combat command structure, job-hunting, Pepper's taste in shoes, and the fact that he has a crush on everybody ever. <br/>And then Natasha has a minor identity crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth In Potatoes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm stuck on structural issues in the facepunchy story. Surprise surprise.   
> This was for Hanukkah but now it's Christmas so I'm sincerely wishing everyone happy holidays or even if there's no holiday you celebrate, happy cheer-up-it's-the-darkest-week-of-winter-in-the-northern-hemisphere, and I present to you an offering of Bucky being a complete dork.

 

“Well,” Bucky said, carefully turning the last nub of potato in his metal fingers to press it against the grater, “I guess I’ve found what this thing’s good for.”

“Wow,” Sam said, glancing over, “that was— oh holy shit, man, you already did ‘em _all_?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, a little impressed himself. The entire ten-pound bag of potatoes was neatly shredded into the enormous bowl. “Gimme the onions.”

“How the hell,” Sam said, but stopped, shaking his head, and slid the onions over to him. 

“Sha _zam_ ,” Bucky said gleefully, going to town on the onions with the grater. He had recently gotten a digital subscription to a comics website and had devoured several lengthy series of fictional superhero comics. Discovering that Steve _hated_ Superman had only fueled his glee, and he had taken to making references to the comics whenever he wanted to annoy Steve, which was all the time. The fact that Shazam had also been called Captain Marvel for a while, until one of the various real Captain Marvels had gotten sick of it and sued the comics company, had only made it sweeter. Steve now had a creeping paranoia that Bucky was going to say _shazam!_ to Carol at an inopportune moment and get himself energy-beam-hands melted.

The entire rest of the world’s superhero population mostly stood in awe of how fucking obnoxious Steve and Bucky were to each other. Bucky had clued Carol in to Steve’s paranoia and they were plotting to prank him with it at some point. Carol was kind of an asshole; Bucky really liked her. 

“Must be nice to have an impervious metal hand,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. 

“Don’t mock my prosthetic,” Bucky said. “I can’t let it hit the grater or it’ll wreck the grater. I’m being crazy precise here, man.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, getting out the frying pan. “Well, you’ve moved our timetable up.”

“I’m brutally efficient,” Bucky said. “Says so at the top of my résume.”

“You got one of those, huh?” 

“Sure,” Bucky said. “Doesn’t everybody? Took some doin’ to get it down under three pages, I gotta tell you. Meant I just omitted a bunch of stuff. Like my old paper route, nobody cares about that. And, like, all the details of my various missions. I just condensed it down.”

“Nineteen forty-five to twenty-fourteen,” Sam said, pretending to write, “employee of HYDRA, responsible for mayhem and chaos. Technologies mastered: impressive list of guns, knives, grenades, and explosives. References: Do not call this employer for references what is wrong with you they are literally Nazis.”

“More or less,” Bucky said. “I got some certifications in there, languages learned, that kind of thing. I made sure to use keywords like _target-oriented_ and _exemplary completion rate_ and that kind of thing.”

“Keywords are good,” Sam said. “And like, if you got computer skills. Can you type? Oh okay wow you’re done with the onions too. Um, the recipe says to press out the liquid.”

Heels clacking against the floor alerted Bucky to Pepper’s impending arrival. “I’m real good at keywords,” he said absently, resisting the urge to check his hair in the reflective surface of the microwave door. He wasn’t particularly attracted to Pepper (he wouldn’t say _not at all_ , but it wasn’t, like, a thing), it was just an old reflex— a _very_ old reflex. Its return was probably a good sign, and he debated pointing that out to Sam, but decided on discretion instead. “And I can… _kinda_ type. I’m good at selfies, is that a computer skill?”

“You should work in something about how your reputation borders on legend,” Sam said. 

“Hard to work that in,” Bucky said. “You don’t really want language like that in a resume. Besides, anyone who’d be interested in the kind of shit I’m qualified for would already know that.”

“Makes me wonder why you’d bother writing a resume,” Sam said. “Oh, hey, Pepper.”

“Who’s writing a resume?” Pepper asked. 

“Me,” Bucky said. 

“Are you applying for jobs?” She was gracefully, light-heartedly not-quite-surprised, and Bucky felt his face get a little hot.

“I was kidding,” he said, feeling his affect go a little flat, damn it. “I can’t— legally work, or nothin’. I just— thought it would be funny.”

“I’m sure we could get you clearance to work if you wanted it,” Pepper said, regarding him keenly. 

Bucky managed to scrape up a laugh. “If anything, when I’m cleared for action I’d rather just, y’know, help Steve,” he said. “I just— it was a joke.” He’d read about modern job-hunting, in one of his bouts of insomnia, but the majority of his knowledge of it came from throwaway lines in television shows. He did know about the importance of a good cover letter. And keywords.

“You’re doing important volunteer work at the moment,” Sam said. “I’d let you taste the batter, Pepper, but it’s all raw potatoes so I bet it’s kind of nasty.”

“I’m not much of a batter-taster,” Pepper said with a laugh. “But, Bucky, if you want a real resume, I have a lot of advice for you.”

“That’s real sweet of you,” Bucky said, surprised and a little genuinely moved. 

“How many jobs you really had in your life?” Sam asked. “That, like, you actually voluntarily had.”

Bucky shrugged. “I was a sheet metal worker before the war,” he said. “At my grandpa’s machine shop. I was a decent tin-knocker but none of the equipment’s anything like it was, nowadays.” He shrugged again. “That one was just nepotism, though. I didn’t apply for that job, I just showed up when I was old enough.”

“Still counts,” Sam said. “Put it on the ol’ C.V.” 

“Gonna do a whole thing on Twitter,” Bucky said. “Hashtag it resumekeywords or something.”

Pepper laughed. “I’ll do a video with you,” she said. “An informational video about how to write a killer resume. Talk it over with Lakeisha, we’ll make it happen.”

“Sweet,” Bucky said, already mentally plotting the various jokes he could make at his own expense. He was getting pretty good at those.

Pepper looked at the giant bowl of potatoes, watched Bucky trying to work out how to press out the liquid with a tea towel. “Are you… what are you making so much of?”

“Latkes,” Sam said. “Y’know. Potato pancakes.”

“Why so many?” she asked. 

Sam gestured around the room. “You know who-all lives here,” he said. “It’s not like everyone’s gonna take one each and be satisfied with that.”

“Is there a Hanukkah party, or something?” Pepper asked. “I could have had it catered.”

“Nah,” Sam said. “A few people are coming over, that’s all.”

“I didn’t realize you were so passionate about Hanukkah,” Pepper said. 

“I’m not,” Sam said, “I’m just really into potato pancakes.”

“And I’m really into shredding things,” Bucky said, gesturing a little lamely with the grater. Dang, he was going all awkward around Pepper, like he’d forgotten how to talk to a dame. 

“Ah,” Pepper said. “Well then.”

“Think that’s dry enough?” Bucky asked Sam. 

“I bet it is,” Sam said. “Now the eggs.”

“I see you have this well in hand,” Pepper said.

“Yeah,” Sam said, “the other traditional thing is apparently doughnuts of some kind and I thought about trying to make those too but we’re just gonna buy those. It’s New York, they got Jews here, I bet somebody can figure it out. I sent Natasha out to look.” He did a double-take. “Holy shit, Bucky, you could just crack the eggs like a normal dude.”

“The list of things I do _like a normal dude_ is very short,” Bucky pointed out, using his metal fingers to crack another egg with devastating precision. He had mastered, via several breakfasts, the art of squeezing just so, so that they cracked cleanly instead of shattering. Was he showing off? He might be. Jesus. Well, it was helping him regain composure, so there was that in its favor. He was kind of showing off for Sam, too, was the thing, because he definitely had a huge crush on Sam. And Steve. And Natasha. And Pepper? 

What the fuck. 

Christ, Barnes, you’re a mess.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Sam said, shaking his head slightly, and Bucky had a bad moment where he thought he’d spoken out loud before he rewound the conversation in his head a little.

“Pull up a chair, ma’am,” Bucky said breezily. “Take a load off. You got a couple minutes to hang out? I’m told we’re an entertaining comedy duo.”

“I could sit a minute,” Pepper said, surveying the seating options. 

“You could sit on the counter if you want a front-row perspective,” Bucky said, and offered her a hand. She looked startled for a second— had he overstepped?— but then accepted his hand and let him give her a boost to plant her seat daintily, on the edge of the counter top, crossing her legs with a demure gesture. She was, of course, wearing killer heels, and Bucky took a moment to admire them.

“Jeez, Buck,” Sam said, “don’t strain anything.”

“I’m just lookin’ at her shoes,” Bucky said, mock-defensive. “There ain’t nothin’ dirty about lookin’ at a dame’s _feet_ , is there?” He looked back to Pepper and said, “Ma’am, you always have the most beautiful outfits.”

Pepper laughed. “Well,” she said, “a large part of that is that I have a whole lot of money.”

“Money can’t buy you taste,” Bucky said, sparing half an eye to watch Sam mix the matzoh meal into the batter. 

“It can, though,” she said. “As it happens. Enough money, and you can have someone buy things for you. Fortunately for me, I used to be one of those people, so I don’t need the middle-man.”

“You collect art too,” Bucky said. “Steve told me. In hushed, reverent tones.”

That got a real, sparkling laugh out of Pepper, who actually threw her head back briefly. She was, really truly, a beautiful dame, beneath all that put-on sleek polish. “I do,” she said. “Gosh, Steve is sweet. You know I’ve bought a few pieces from him. He was absurdly shy about it.”

Didn’t Bucky know it. He could easily recall Steve’s mumbles and blushes whenever anyone complimented him, after he got over the cool detached wary skepticism. “Yeah,” Bucky said, letting his gaze turn inward a moment. “He’s, he’s real funny about his art.” 

“But he really is talented,” Pepper mused, earning her a place forever in Bucky’s heart. “You know,” she went on, “he told me a really marvelous story about a time the Howling Commandos found a French villa full of art hidden from the German invasion.” 

Bucky bit his lip, thinking a moment, and suddenly the memory assaulted him vividly— Dugan pivoting on a heel with a low whistle, Steve’s hand actually trembling as he pulled a dust cover off of a marble statue, the way they’d all stood awe-stricken in front of the revealed masterwork. “Yeah,” he said, unable to muster a smart comment. “That was— I remember that one.” 

“Happy memory or sad memory?” Sam asked, and it stirred something warm in the pit of Bucky’s stomach to recognize that Sam’s tone was concerned and protective under the flippant facade. 

He grinned over at Sam. “Happy,” he said. “There was— it was beautiful. This dusty old place, and— Gabe Jones had the most education of any of us besides Falsworth, he’d read a lot on his own and he’d done a couple years of college, and he knew the names of pretty much every painting. And he’s listing them off for us, and Steve’s just beside himself, and— I mean, I liked the art too, you know how sometimes you see a thing like that and it’s just so powerful, kind of moves you, that feeling in the middle of your gut and kind of a tingle at the back of your neck?” He shrugged, self-conscious. “It was, it was really something. But, you know, I was the sergeant, I was more concerned with the fact that there was enough space in there for us all to sleep dry and warm, and everybody got to wash their socks.” He laughed. 

“Never underestimate the mother-hen instinct of a good sergeant,” Sam said, tilting the bowl to test the consistency of the batter.

“Is that a thing?” Pepper asked.

Bucky shrugged, too tongue-tied by emotion to explain it. Sam laughed, and bumped his shoulder against Bucky’s. “In a unit like the Howlies, the commanding officer is gonna do all your tactics and strategy and whatnot, but his noncom, his sergeant, is the one who’s gonna make sure everyone’s in a state to _do_ it.”

“Dry socks,” Bucky said, fidgeting with the salt shaker, “clean weapon, enough sleep, somethin’ to eat, an’ if he just got a Dear John letter from his girl we’re not gonna make him the point man, y’know?”

“I never thought of that,” Pepper said, sitting forward a little.

It had never struck Bucky to wonder this before, but— “Dugan woulda had to take over,” he said, half to himself. “After they lost me. He was next in line.” He shook his head, frowning. “Bet he _hated_ that.” God. _God_. He’d left them. He’d— 

“He was the next-highest ranking person?” Pepper asked. 

“Naw,” Sam said, “the next noncom— Falsworth was a lieutenant but a commissioned officer’s gonna have a different line of work, y’know? He woulda been tactics, that kinda thing.”

“Maps,” Bucky said, “tactics, strategy, planning.” He breathed. “Dugan and Morita were corporals, but Morita was the medic. Dugan had more time in rank, that made him senior.” He closed his eyes a moment. “We didn’t stand on ceremony exactly but there was, it was the way things… worked. The Army does it that way for a reason. People got training for a reason. If your lieutenant is doing a sergeant’s duties you’re probably all gonna die.”

Sam tilted the bowl. “That look right to you?”

“How would I know?” Bucky asked, peering obediently into the bowl instead of letting his mind run down the spiral. He’d _left_ them. 

“Hm,” Sam said. “Good question.”

“It’s probably fine,” Bucky said. Too late. He was spiraling. He went to get the oil, leaning against the counter as he pretended to have more trouble taking the top off than he was. Christ. Dugan had looked out for them just fine, surely. Knew how to gently nudge Falsworth away from the bottle. Knew not to rely on Jonesy’s night vision. Knew not to make Morita do anything involving heights on his own. 

Clearly hadn’t known how not to let Steve get himself killed. 

_Fuck_.

“Hey,” Sam said, and laid a hand gently at the small of Bucky’s back. “You need a hand gettin’ that lid off?”

Bucky took in a breath, let it out. Everybody else had gotten home alive, he knew that. They’d all lived to retire. Dugan hadn’t fucked up. Another breath in, Sam’s hand so warm on his back, a slow breath out. “Yeah,” he said, and handed Sam the bottle, “I don’t wanna break it.” He gave Sam a shaky grin. “Best to leave that kind of thing to the squishy normals.”

“Squishy normals,” Pepper said. 

“You ain’t one, doll,” Bucky said, knowing that the speech pattern was foreign enough not to be offensively casual anymore. _Baby_ had been retained, and so couldn’t be used with impunity, but _doll_ had fossilized, archaic and funny. 

“I am anything but normal,” Pepper said, a little wistfully. 

“I’m not squishy,” Sam said, flicking the bottle lid at Bucky. Bucky fended it off, and caught it. “Also that was damn easy to unscrew.”

“I loosened it for you,” Bucky said, tossing it back so Sam could easily catch it. He turned on the burner under the frying pan, snagged a spatula out of the canister, stepped back to let Sam put the oil in the pan. “More than that,” he said. 

“You done this before?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I cooked plenty,” Bucky said.

“Uphill in the snow both ways, sure,” Sam said, “but I am an excellent cook and I know what I’m doing.”

“I read the recipe,” Bucky countered. “It says half an inch of oil.” He caught Pepper’s amused gaze and winked at her. 

Sam turned and looked at the sheet of paper with the recipe on it. “Oh,” he said. “So it does.” He added more oil, muttering in pretend-annoyance in half-intelligible phrases including _smartass_ and _read the recipe_ and _thinks he’s so smart_.

“Maybe you should do comedy videos with Sam,” Pepper said. “You guys have great chemistry.”

“I have great chemistry with everybody,” Sam said. “That’s my mutant superpower.”

“That and you can fly,” Bucky pointed out. 

“The jet-pack can fly,” Sam corrected. “And I’m not saying’ it doesn’t take talent to steer the thing, but that’s not my mutant superpower. My superpower is chemistry. I’m a people-person.”

“Thank God _some_ body is,” Bucky said. 

“Steve’s a people person,” Sam said. They looked at each other, each vying for the most deadpan expression. Sam cracked first, and guffawed; Bucky had to cover his mouth with his hand to muffle his laughter. 

“Steve’s very charming,” Pepper protested. 

“That is exactly the word I wouldn’t use,” Sam said. “Hot as fuck, yes. Compelling, sure. Magnetic, even. But charming?”

“Couldn’t charm his way out of a paper bag with a neon exit sign in the mouth of it,” Bucky said. He stuck the spatula under the faucet for a second, then flicked a drop of water into the oil. Sam leapt backward with a yelp as the oil hissed and spit. 

“Jesus,” Sam said, “you can just look at the bubbles, you don’t gotta burn somebody to check the oil temperature.”

“Looks good to me,” Bucky said, blithely unconcerned, and grabbed the bowl, craning his neck to peer at the recipe for a moment. “All right, here goes nothin’.”

The recipe said to form the batter into patties but didn’t really elaborate, so they tried a couple of methods, with much bickering and griping and associated general hilarity. Steve came in when they were on their third or fourth round, and Bucky noticed him right away but pretended he hadn’t, enjoying the way Steve was watching them. 

“Buck,” Steve said finally, “you hittin’ on Stark’s girl?”

Bucky drew himself up, putting a hand to his chest. “Steven Grant Rogers,” he said, “I would never, I would not dream of ever doing such a thing, shame on you for even imagining it.” Steve just raised an eyebrow, and they stood a moment having a stare-off. Bucky threw his hands up, finally, and said, “Fine! Maybe I am flirting. But you know, maybe I’m flirting with Wilson, didja think of that?”

Steve raised the other eyebrow too, and said, amused, “Well, you always were good at multi-tasking.”

Bucky grinned at Pepper, who was looking a bit startled. “They say to shoot the moon ‘cuz even if you miss you’re still among the stars.”

“Am I the moon or the stars?” Sam asked, waving the spatula. 

Bucky threw out his arm as if to hold himself up using Steve’s bulk, like he were made faint by Sam’s presence. “It is the east,” he said breathily, “and Sam Wilson is the sun.”

“Jeez,” Steve said, holding him up easily, “didn’t you used to be good at that kind of thing? Or was I just so bad at it that you seemed good in comparison?”

“I dunno, Cap,” Sam said, one hand on his hip and the spatula over his shoulder like a shovel as he considered. “You weren’t gettin’ the full force of that one. That wasn’t so bad. Barnes, you’re allowed to hit on me any time you like.”

“Did it work?” Bucky asked, hauling himself upright on Steve’s shoulder. “Am I in your pants yet?”

“Ask me later,” Sam said, and winked. “I notice Captain America shows up, as usual, as soon as there’s the smell of food.” He waved the spatula up and down, gesturing to Steve’s whole self. “Old Reliable.”

“Don’t,” Bucky said mock-wearily, slouching down against Steve’s solid grip, “don’t trigger my protect-Steve-Rogers instinct, Wilson, I’m gonna bring twenty years of frettin’ over Steve not eatin’ enough down on your head and it’s just gonna be a mess.” He was being dramatic to try and cover up the fact that he’d instinctively bristled and was having trouble smoothing himself back down. 

Steve laughed softly, missing nothing, and hauled Bucky in to wrap his arms around him and press his cheek against Bucky’s cheek. His arms slid around Bucky’s back, reassuring and _so_ warm and he smelled so good. Bucky leaned against him. “He’s right, Wilson,” Steve said, sounding both touched and smug, which took considerable talent. 

“What, only you can make fun of him?” Sam asked. 

“That’s right,” Bucky mumbled, face shoved in the crook of Steve’s neck. God he was— he was solid, he was familiar, he was perfect. Bucky was gonna stay right here forever. Forget about having crushes on everyone, he just wanted Steve to never let go of him.

Steve actually kissed Bucky’s temple, right by his ear. “You’re ridiculous, Barnes.”

“I’m _your_ ridiculous Barnes,” Bucky said.

Steve laughed, and tightened his arms around Bucky. “That you are, pal,” he said. “And if you weren’t I’d’ve been dead five dozen times over.”

“You never had that good a head for figures,” Bucky said. “It was probably more like 75 times.”

“Sam’s not wrong, though,” Steve said. “I just showed up for the food.”

“Natasha’s supposed to be back with doughnuts,” Sam said. 

“Clint texted that he was on his way,” Steve said. “Maybe she’s with him.”

“Is anyone here Jewish?” Pepper asked. “Or is this really just about the food?”

Nobody answered for a moment, but then from the doorway a voice suddenly said, “I am,” and everyone turned and Natasha was standing there, looking perfectly blank and holding a cardboard box.

“Really,” Pepper said, tilting her head.

Natasha didn’t answer, she just walked in and set the cardboard box down on the table before folding her arms across her chest. Her hands were shaking, Bucky noticed. “I don’t know,” Natasha said, and turned and walked out of the room. Everyone watched her go, and the moment where they all realized she wasn’t coming right back in was actually palpable, Bucky felt it tick over. 

“Natasha,” Steve said, letting go of Bucky and jogging out the door, face stricken with concern. 

“What did I say?” Pepper asked, looking to Sam helplessly. Sam shrugged, bewildered. 

“They took that from her,” Bucky said, the words coming out before he had really formed them in his head. “She wouldn’t still have that.”

Both Pepper and Sam were staring at him now, and he curled in on himself a little, inwardly. It was hard to explain these things. “The way they took my name,” he said, “and my— who I was. They took that from her too. She just, she had a lot less than I did when they took it. So she got a lot less back than I have.”

They were still staring at him. “Wait,” Sam said, “you mean—“

“She was a little kid,” Bucky said. “I was an adult. I got it back because there was something to get back. But little kids are a lot more plastic. Moldable.” He shook his head. 

Steve came back in. “She disappeared,” he said, unhappy. “I, I know it’s hard to tell but I think she’s upset.”

“Should we go after her?” Pepper asked. 

“She hid,” Steve said. “I’m pretty fast, y’know? She hid so I wouldn’t find her, she can’t have just walked away that fast.”

“Is she gonna be okay?” Pepper asked. “I feel terrible! I wasn’t even thinking— I wasn’t questioning her.”

“Nobody thinks you were,” Sam said. 

“Pancakes are burning,” Bucky said, and Sam swore and spun around, and Steve went to help him, and Pepper slid off the counter to turn on the ventilation hood over the stove. 

And Bucky walked out into the hallway, got a leg up on the decorative wall panel, and hauled himself easily up into the ventilation shaft, fitting the cover neatly into place behind himself. It took him less than five seconds, eyes closed to pay better attention to the air currents, to figure out which branch of the system Natasha had gone down. 

She coughed quietly, which he understood to be her letting him find her, and he crawled up behind her. He was too large to turn around in here, but she could, so she was facing him when he reached her. “I’m not running away,” she murmured crossly. “I just needed a minute.”

He reached out and took one of her hands between both of his. “I know,” he said. 

“Did you explain?” she asked quietly, after a long moment. He nodded, and after a long moment lifted his right hand to trace a finger gently along the edge of her cheek. She closed her eyes, letting him. 

“I don’t know if it’s true,” she said finally, not opening her eyes. “I just— the smell, and the sugar, and I was thinking about whether I knew how to light a menorah, and I remembered, suddenly. Just— impressions. Fragments. But— was it for a mission, or was it—“ 

Bucky slid his hand further, to cradle her jaw, stroking a thumb across her cheekbone. “It wouldn’t have been a mission,” he said softly. “Why would you need to light a menorah for a mission?”

She shook her head very slightly. “And I remember,” she said quietly, “a woman, a soft body, so big. And singing. And the candles.” 

Bucky crawled forward and put his forehead against hers, moving his hand around to gently rest on the back of her neck. They stayed like that for a moment, in silence, breathing together, and then Natasha laughed shakily and said, “Did Wilson set the kitchen on fire?”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, grinning at her, so close-range his eyes were nearly crossed. “Should we rescue him?”

“He better not fuck up all the latkes,” Natasha said. “I want one.”

 

The best part of coming out of the ventilation shaft was catching Steve by surprise.

“That never gets old,” Bucky said, wheezing with laughter. He was straddling Steve’s chest, and Steve was lying on his back on the floor, having realized what was going on in time not to throw Bucky across the room. 

“Fuck you,” Steve said, “I should never have let you read Calvin and Hobbes.”

“You love it,” Bucky said. 

Steve sighed, and tilted his head to look over at Pepper and Sam. “Yeah,” he said, looking back at Bucky, “okay, I do.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As is typical for me, none of this is what I intended. It was supposed to just be Bucky and Natasha.
> 
> Because okay if Natasha has no identity before she was put into training, the idea of her being a member of such an extremely ancient religion/ethnicity is very compelling. I just like the idea of her having that kind of root, or at least the suggestion of it. Piled on top of that is, of course, the mess that being a Russian Jew in the Soviet Union would entail. It is, I admit, inspired in part by the MCU’s Black Widow actress’s background— Scarlett Johannson is of Russian Jewish extraction on her mother’s side, and that has been absorbed into my headcanon of Natasha’s identity for some time now— since before I started writing any MCU characters. 
> 
> The bit about noncoms and commissioned officers is perhaps romanticized, but my father was lieutenant of a platoon of infantry in Vietnam and when they rotated him out they didn’t replace him right away, and while his poor overworked sergeant was trying to do both his own job and dad’s, half the unit got blown up and the sergeant killed. I grew up with his picture on the wall, a sweat-drenched sunburnt stranger next to my handlebar-moustached 24-year-old sunburnt father, and the rubbing from the Wall in D.C. where his name was, and a rock-solid respect for the job a sergeant does.
> 
>  
> 
> All I wanted was latkes. I almost burned my house down making latkes as research. OK my boyfriend almost burned the house down making me latkes because he is the greatest. Sour cream only, I will fight you on this; applesauce is a goddamn side dish. 
> 
> Note: no, I am not Jewish, and have only a rudimentary understanding of Jewish culture; my high school had a number of compulsory events and in the interests of fairness for every Christian tradition we had at least one non-Christian one, so we had Hanukkah parties every year but also I have been through half a dozen Passover seders and have come away with the conviction that the Jews know how to eat, I tell you what. I’ve actually kept kosher for Passover, for like a week (and damn, respect). So, tl;dr, I may be a shiksa but I am at least vaguely Jew-literate, which is all this fic really calls for. Apologies if you wanted something more intensely Jewish, but I actually came up short trying to find a canon MCU Jew and didn’t want to insert an OC for such a short piece. So instead our boys are just passionate about latkes, which is understandable; so am I.


End file.
